Broken
by NativeCharm
Summary: Prowl ponders the similarities between himself and his broken stylus, which leads him to reflecting on his past, and his future. Short little one-shot scribble that came to me at 2 AM last night.


**Title: **Broken

**Song(s): **"Broken" by Lifehouse; "Heaven's Not Enough" from Wolf's Rain

**Fandom:** Transformers

**Verse:** G1

**Characters:** Prowl; mentions of Bluestreak

**Pairings:** None

**Warnings:** Angst, war and some minor gore

**A/N:** My first published TF fan fic! 8D WOOT WHOOT! Yes, I have written TF fan fics before, I'm just too chicken to post 'em. Sue me. So, this particular fan fic spawned last night at two AM, after a RP with Cherrytimebomb with Prowl and her OC Dagger. It wouldn't leave my poor brain alone until I'd gotten it down on paper. So, enjoy my random little oneshot! Oh, and just for fun, I advise listening to Broken by Lifehouse while reading this. It was part of my inspiration to scribble this out. ;3

**Disclaimer:** Transformers © to their respective owners.

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_Cold rain tapped_ the roof with a heavy, hammering pattern as wind slammed into the base from all sides with brute force. A single light cut through the darkness that consumed the sleeping base, shining from Prowl's office. The Praxian risked a quick glance at his chronometer, and then looked away. 1:04 AM. He'd been at work here since noon, and would've been here earlier if 'complications' hadn't arisen, courtesy of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. The base had been in a buzz all morning, bots and humans both going places and doing things in a frenzy, the world spinning around Prowl as he stood firmly anchored to organize the chaos around him that raged like the storm outside.

Or, at least, attempt to.

A boom of thunder shook the base and was suddenly accompanied by a small crack from below that caused Prowl to look down in surprise. His old stylus had snapped, shattering down the old break up the middle and sides that had been carefully mended before. He stared at the two pieces for a moment, then picked both of them up and examined them closely. The break went from about halfway down the side to the tip, shattering bits and pieces that now peppered the datapad below it.

The stylus had broken before…long before. The stylus was one of Prowl's oldest possessions, for it was from Praxus, his own stylus from when he was an enforcer there. He didn't know why he'd mended the old thing and brought it to Earth with him. Maybe because it was a tangible memory of his old life, something he could touch and be reminded of the fond parts of his past. He'd forgotten where he had first acquired the stylus. For all he knew, he could have accidentally taken it from the office, or it could well be from the very datapad set his creators had given him when he first became an enforcer. Wherever it had come from, it was from Praxus, and Prowl had always remembered that. It had always been distinguishable by the jagged, splintering cracks along one side, hastily taped together after the attack on Praxus. Prowl remembered the day he found it well.

The war had taken its toll on Praxus. Prowl had been injured heavily from the assault, and had been staggering back to Praxus's law enforcement headquarters with a crushed right leg, a missing doorwing, and a blast torn into his shoulder. With him was a youngling he'd found huddled in the debris of the streets, terrified and calling for creators who would never come. Prowl had vaguely recognized the youngling, a little gray and blue mech he'd seen on his frequent patrols, and had told him to come with him. Maybe there was a chance that one of his creators was still alive. So together they'd staggered through the streets. Prowl remembered wondering if the small mech would ever stop talking. He'd commented constantly on the ruined buildings and streets, marveling at the difference such a short time had made. Prowl had been on the verge of snapping at him to shut up, but fatigue added to sympathy had made him hold his tongue. To this day Prowl often wondered if Bluestreak would ever stop talking.

Together he and the youngling had crossed the broken city to the headquarters and found it destroyed, not unlike the rest of Praxus. The offlined corpses of the bots he'd once known and worked with littered the area. He could name every one of them – Lightspeed, Darkhowl, Daybreak, Rimfrost, and more – but he tried not to. Tried not to attach names and memories to the dead carcasses slumped across overturned desks and shoved between shattered walls. Ordering Bluestreak to look down and guiding him with his good servo, he made his way to his own office only to find everything destroyed. Nothing was left.

Nothing except for a single shattered stylus that had somehow escaped destruction.

Prowl didn't know why he'd subspaced the pen. He didn't even remember doing it. He only remembered finding it in his subspace after he and Bluestreak, nearly offlined themselves at that point, had been found and taken to an Autobot refuge.

Broken city. Broken stylus. Broken Autobot.

Perhaps it had been the symbolism between the three very different yet spark-achingly familiar things that had made him keep the stylus. The stylus was him, in a way. Shattered by war, taped haphazardly back together, and plunged back into a world of chaos and pain. Standing up to eons of hurt because he was needed. Needed to organize reports and schedules and tactical movements. Needed to keep the Autobots in line, whipping the ragtag set of loyal soldiers into shape, perhaps sometimes coldly, but always with the best of intentions. It was what he was made to do. What he needed to do.

But as he stared down at the stylus, broken once again, he couldn't help but wonder if there was still some connection between the times it had broken and the times he was breaking.

Abruptly he stood up, walked across the room, and dropped the stylus in the trash bin near the door. It was pointless to try and repair it again. He did his best to push away the small voice in his mind whispering, "Is that your stylus you're throwing away, or yourself?"

Maybe it _was_ himself he was throwing away – his personal life, anyway. Maybe it was his past going into the trash bin. He squared his shoulders, straightening and returning to his desk. Back to work. Back to the only thing that really mattered – the present and the future. It was his responsibility now, and he wasn't going to waste his time reminiscing about the past. There was work that needed to be done.

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Yes, it was short. I apologize for that. It just wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down x3


End file.
